Running With Scissors

Deux Ex Fried Redux

It was the duck standing in front of him that rubbed him the wrong way.

It was blue. Very blue. Peter was about eighty percent sure ducks weren't blue, and fifty percent sure they didn't have three eyes. He made a mental note about looking that fact on Wikipedia. He was, however, a hundred percent sure that ducks couldn't talk, and if they did, they would definitely sound more like the ones in the commercials.

And yet, that particular one couldn't stop blabbering nonsense at him with a deep, almost wise voice.

"You don't seem to be aware that your actions have consequences," said the duck. "Such is the folly of the children of Adam."

"You're a rude duck," said Peter. "Go duck yourself."

"You pitiful being. You're neither cold nor hot, and as such, you're to be spit away from God's grace," said the duck, which began to clean its feathers with its bill.

The towering, totally-not-suspicious figure sitting next to Peter while wearing a trenchcoat and a fedora threw a piece of bread at the duck, which began to pinch at it while wagging its tail.

"They can be quite rude," said the figure in a thunderous voice.

"So I see," said Peter.

"You can pluck a leg from it and eat it if it makes you feel better," said the figure. "It's always cook to a perfect temperature."

"I'm not hungry," said Peter. And he was indeed, not hungry, nor tired, not even mad, really. It was a rather odd situation. He was completely at peace, and without pain.

"Suit yourself," said the figure. And with that, there was silence. It was a nice silence, like those at the end of a movie where everything is implied to be alright. Roll credits. After credit scenes. Brief cameo by Stan Lee.

But silence was not the business that particularly large figure was trying to pursue that day. "You must be wondering why I brought you here."

"No," said Peter with complete frankness. "I'm not. I was wondering why I feel so familiar about this place. And also if ducks have three eyes."

"Not normally," said the figure. "But they do have three eyes here in heaven."

"We are in heaven, then," said Peter, more of a statement than a question. It made complete sense to him, as odd as it sounded.

"Not quite in heaven. More like heaven-adjacent," said the figure. "You see, heaven has many layers, like an onion."

"Or an ogre," said Peter.

"Or an ogre," repeated the figure. "We are just outside the gates of heaven. Sort of like a waiting area. It would be like that flaky, brown outer layer of the onion that is inedible."

"Gotcha," said Peter. "Heaven. That's why the sky is green and yellow."

"Actually, it's pretty much blue," stated the figure. "It just looks like that to you because you have a concussion. Some brain damage, even. You were hit by a Philly Cheesesteak filled with batteries."

Peter scratched the back of his head. He did vaguely remember something about pain and cheese. "Is that how I died?"

The figure shuffled uncomfortably on the bench. "About that: no. You're not dead. You're just unconscious."

"Oh," said Peter. "Why am I in heaven, then?"

"I used one of my miracles," said the figure. "I hope you can appreciate it. I only get three of them every millenia or so, and this is my second one."

"What did you use the first one for?"

"I wanted to know how Avengers: Endgame ended," said the figure. "The whole thing was leaked online like, three days later. A waste of a good miracle, I say."